Our Blessed Child
by lordhellebore
Summary: WIP, AU, nonmagic. Set in London of 1829. Severus Snape is a chemist, Petunia Dursley is desperate, and Harry Potter is mentally disabled. Full summary inside.
1. Chapter 01

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any characters or anything else related to Harry Potter; it all belongs to J.K. Rowling and her publishers. No money is being made.  
**  
Summary: **AU, no magic. London, 1829: Years ago, Severus Snape had no hope of marrying the woman he loved, Lily Evans. Now a rich chemist, he makes the acquaintance of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, the latter being his lost love's elder sister. Lily and her husband James Potter have died thirteen years ago, leaving a mentally handicapped son, who is not accepted by his uncle but locked away after a tragic accident. Not allowed to see her abused nephew, a desperate Petunia finally seizes an opportunity and asks Snape for help. Will he be able to help Harry as well as his aunt?

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**Chapter 01**

It was after midnight when the door of the bedroom slowly opened and the tall, thin woman entered the dark hallway on the second floor of the large town house. She had blond hair, neatly tied into a bun, and was wearing a dark muslin house frock far too plain for her social status. The yellowish light of the flickering candle she was bearing illuminated her tense face: the long neck, the thin line of lips, the furrowed brow, the grey eyes, nervously darting to all sides.

Soundlessly, she tiptoed down the long corridor, approaching the staircase which led down to the ground floor. She managed the way to the the first floor without disturbance, but then one of the wooden steps covered with expensive purple carpet gave a creaking sound that made her freeze immediately. With bated breath, she listened for any sign that she might have been noticed, but the house stayed still; no sudden steps echoed through the darkness. She resisted the urge to sigh in relief, but instead continued her way down the stairs. Upon arriving, she turned to the right, silently walking across the spacious entrance hall toward another corridor that led to the kitchen and the servants' quarters.

She did not dare to think of the consequences should she be discovered. Today was the first opportunity since almost four months ago, her husband being on a three week business journey to Nottinghamshire from which he would return the day after tomorrow. With him being home, she would never have dared to disobey his orders so blatantly.

She had now entered a second corridor that crossed the one she had been walking before. If possible, her steps became even more careful as she slowly, foot by foot, crept along the wall until she reached a plain oaken door on the left. Her heart hammering wildly in her throat, she bent forward to press her ear against the wood. She almost expected to hear the handle be turned and the door to be flung open at any moment – but there was nothing except for the sound of loud snoring on the other side. She smelled alcohol in the air as she ever so carefully opened the door. She had been right, then. He had drunk himself unconscious, as he usually did every few weeks, and she was as safe in her undertaking as she could ever hope to be.

Turning to the right, she saw the large bunch of keys hanging on the nail beside the entrance. If only she managed to get them out without making too much noise! He seemed to be sound asleep, but you never knew.

Tonight, however, she was lucky and managed to remove the keys and close the door behind her without causing the slightest irregularity in the heavy snores. Leaning against the wall, she allowed herself a short moment of relief.

_'Thank god I saw him carry these gin bottles to his room in the afternoon! Otherwise I would probably have had to wait another four months!'_

At this thought, her gaze involuntarily wandered to a second oaken door at the end of the corridor, barely visible in the flickering candlelight. There were heavy locks on it as if to detain a strong and wild beast, or an equally dangerous maniac. Her heart ached to rush over and open it, but she had something else to do first. Forcefully detaching her gaze from the locked door, she laid the keys down on the floor, then turned and left the corridor, resuming her path down the first hallway to the kitchen.

Having arrived there, she took out a wooden plate and put it on the table, then opened the door to the larder. Holding up the candle, she surveyed the food and took out two small pastries and an apple. The candle in one and the plate in the other hand, she then exited the kitchen and returned to where she had left the keys.

Still afraid of making any unnecessary sound, she put down the food and instead picked up the keys. Her breath had quickened, and her hands were shaking slightly as she began to open the various locks. Four months! It had been unbearable, yet she had been forced to pretend that she did not care at all, even though they knew it was a lie. And how long would it take until the next time? Six months? A year? Longer even? Suddenly, it seemed that she could not open the door quickly enough. She had to get in immediately! In her feverish haste, she almost dropped the keys, but managed to catch them before they hit the floor. The rattling noise of the metal must have been heard all across the house, but again everything stayed silent. Inwardly admonishing herself for her foolishness, she undid the last lock and put the keys into a pocket of her gown.

The heavy door gave a nasty creak as she opened it and peered inside. The overwhelming stench of dirt and excrements washed over her, making her feel nauseous, but she had expected this and braced herself. Letting her gaze wander across the small, unfurnished room, she spotted what seemed to be a bundle of rags on a bed of straw in the corner furthest from the door.

Her mouth felt dry, and she briefly closed her eyes before she let go of the doorknob and picked up the plate, then fully entered the room and silently closed the door behind her. She felt her pulse beat return to a more normal pace – the most difficult part was over. Now calmer, she went over to the huddled form and knelt down beside it, placing the food and candle next to her. Her lips were tightly pressed together as she gazed down at the boy lying on the dirty straw.

He was smaller than normal for his age; no one would have believed that he was fourteen already, for he looked no older than about eight or nine. There were no rosy cheeks, however, no soft boyish features: his skin was unnaturally pale, giving him a grey and sickly look under the layers of dirt. It stretched tightly over the hollow cheeks, indicating that the body hidden under the threadbare blanket was far too thin to be healthy. A large, purple bruise adorned his left cheekbone, and a trace of drool was trickling down the chin from his slack mouth. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched a bony shoulder, shaking him softly as she called him in a hushed voice.

"Wake up, pet… come, wake up, please…" He made a small sound, but did not open his eyes. She tried again, a little louder now. "Come, wake up for me…"

This time, she succeeded, and green eyes fluttered open, their at first unfocussed gaze settling on her after some moments. She had withdrawn her hand, but now reached out to touch him again. He instantly shied away with a yelp of fear, his arms risen protectively over his head.

"Shhhh, be not afraid, pet," she whispered softly. She had expected this behaviour and knew what to do. When the intervals between her visits were shorter, he would respond to her positively, apparently remembering the last time. When she was forced to stay away for so long, however, he would react frightened to her presence, afraid to be hurt. She did not even want to imagine what his guard did to the boy on a daily basis.

She now began petting the matted black hair, whispering soothing words, inwardly praying that his moans of distress were not audible outside. After some minutes, he eventually calmed down and lowered his arms, staring at her questioningly.

"It's I, Auntie. You still know me, don't you?" She slowly moved her hand in the direction of his face again. When this time her fingers touched his cheek, he flinched slightly, but then melted into the touch with a strangled whimper. She caressed for some moments, before suddenly, he lunged himself at her and thin arms were flung around her neck.

"Aunnie!" The slurred word echoed loudly through the silent room. Quickly, she brought her hands up to return the embrace. As she stroked his back, she could feel the protruding spine and shoulder blades through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was clinging to her now, his face hidden in the crook of her neck, making inarticulate sounds of joy.

"Shhh, please be quiet," she tried to hush him. It was not his fault, he did not know better, but all she could think of was the sleeping man in the next room. She loosened his grip on her and, to distract him, pointed to the plate on the floor.

"Look, I brought you something to eat."

His gaze followed her gesture, his face was lit up by a smile, and he quickly slid off her and grabbed one of the pastries. It was gone in no time, as was the second one. In the meantime, she had seated herself on the straw, leaning against the wall. With the apple in hand, he now climbed back into her lap, curling up against her. The icy winds of the November night were howling outside through the nightly streets of the capital, and she already felt the cold creep through her dress and make her shiver slightly. She wrapped the blanket that had covered him before firmly around them.

As he ate in silence, she vainly tried to detach her thoughts from the dinner party her husband would arrange the following week. He had invited all his friends and business contacts, and the table would bend under the amount of delicious and expensive food. She would fulfil her duty as a good hostess, smiling and chatting pleasantly, all the while thinking of her nephew, who received so little to eat that he was positively thrilled at having a piece of fruit and two small pastries.

When he had finished the apple, he rested his head on her shoulder, and she resumed her caresses on his hair and back. There was nothing else they could do but savour what little time was given to them, and she did not care that the skinny form in her arms was reeking of dirt and that, as he began to relax under her touch, drool again began running from his mouth on her gown. Every now and then he would let out a soft sigh or another small sound of pleasure that made her heart swell. He needed so little to make him happy.

As time went by, his gaze became more and more unfocussed, until finally, after about twenty minutes, his eyes fluttered shut and he fell asleep again. She continued to stroke for some minutes and after that simply held him, unwilling to leave so soon. She still had some hours until dawn, and she was content to just hold him and watch him sleep.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and slowly, she felt weariness sneak up to her. She had not slept well during the last nights, since her husband was soon to return, and she had feared that again there would be no opportunity for her to see her nephew. When she had realised that tonight she would have the chance, excitement had kept her wide awake. Now, however, stress and lack of sleep began to take their toll. When first her eyelids began to droop, she fought the urge. She could not allow her caution to wear off. What if she fell asleep and was found here tomorrow? She did not dare to imagine. For some time, this thought managed to keep her awake, but in the end it slipped away and fatigue overtook her, carrying her away into a light slumber.

_It was a warm and sunny day. They were spending the afternoon in the garden, she sitting on a blanket under a large willow, reading, the boys playing some metres away. The larger one was fighting invisible enemies with a stick that in his imagination doubtlessly was a mighty sword. His blond hair was shining in the sun as he ran about, ducking and attacking, and his battle cries rang loud and clear through the air._

The smaller boy was sitting in the grass, his gaze directed to the ground. He was fully absorbed in his task, which seemed to consist in picking as many daisies as fitted into his hand. When finally he had collected enough, he got up and ran over to her.

"Aunnie! Aunnie!" he cried excitedly, and she looked up at him, smiling.

When he arrived by her side, he stretched out his hand and offered her the bunch of small flowers, his green eyes shining brightly. His brow furrowed as he opened his mouth and, with obvious effort, managed to utter a word.

"Fower!"

She took the bouquet and kissed his cheek. "They are beautiful flowers. Thank you, pet."

He giggled happily at this display of affection and rewarded her with a kiss of his own. Pulling him into her lap, she once again was amazed by how small he was for his seven years. There was a spot of dirt on his cheek, and she produced a handkerchief to wipe it off as her attention was drawn away from him.

"Mother, mother, look!"

She looked up and over to her son, who had begun attacking a young tree.

"I'm Saint George, and this is the dragon!" he yelled, wielding his 'sword' forcefully enough to chop off some smaller branches.

She shook her head, about to tell him to stop it and let the plant live, but the boy in her lap laughed and clapped his hands together.

Suddenly, however, his laughter gave way to sobs and whimpers, and she felt a warm liquid soaking her gown. Looking down at him,

she blinked confusedly as all of a sudden, she was surrounded by darkness, a single candle lighting her surroundings. It was cold, and a sickening smell of faeces was lingering in the air. A dream! She must have fallen asleep!

Overcoming the first shock at this realisation, she directed her attention at the child in her arms. Fierce sobs were shaking the thin body, and his small hands were clinging tightly to her gown.

"Shhh, it's all right," she soothed, gently stroking a clammy cheek. "It's just a nightmare… shhh… you are all right, I'm here…"

Several minutes passed until she managed to calm him down, but finally, he looked up at her with tearful eyes.

"Aunnie…" It was a mere whimper, and instinctively, she bent down and kissed his forehead.

"Yes, I'm here, pet, I'm here. Go back to sleep."

He closed his eyes again and let himself be pulled closer to her chest, every now and then sniffing weakly, until at length he dozed off once more. The urine that was soaking his clothes, her gown and the blanket had cooled down, leaving them wet and cold. As she felt him shiver and instinctively arch closer into the warmth her body provided, she wished for nothing more than being able to give him a bath and then tuck him into a warm bed. But it was impossible. Again she kissed his forehead, unable to fight the silent tears that pushed to the surface.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she whispered as the salty droplets trickled down her cheeks. She knew that she could do nothing to defy her husband, but she felt that she owed it to her nephew. She loved him, and she failed to comprehend how his uncle could hate him so much. She knew that many people were of the opinion that children like him were some kind of abomination and in league with the devil, that they had the evil eye, or that they were cursed by god because of their parents' sins. Vernon did not care much about religion, but in his eyes, Harry was a threat to his business and social life.

Sighing, she looked down at the small, pale face and smiled feebly. Yes, he had to be cared for much more than other children, and she doubted that this would ever change, but he had been such a happy child, so friendly, so easily to please. And he had made her happy as well. No, this boy was no devilish abomination; if anything, he was a gift from God. And now that Dudley was dead, he was all she had left.

The thought of her son brought fresh pain and more tears, despite the fact that seven years had passed since his funeral. Maybe it would have been easier to let go, maybe she would have missed him less, if she had been allowed to care for her other child – for that was what she considered her nephew to be. After he had been entrusted in her and her husband's care after his parents' death, she had soon come to think of him as hers.

Her husband had been far from pleased when suddenly he had been burdened with custody of his sister-in-law's one-year-old idiot child. To have someone like him in his house would give him a bad reputation, he had argued. He had, however, not abandoned his nephew, but had set strict rules for his wife and servants to follow. Outside his house, they would not speak of the child. Harry was not allowed to leave the house and the garden, and when there were guests, he would stay in the nursery under all circumstances. Vernon Dursley did not want his guests to be discommoded by the presence of such a boy. Still, they had been happy – until the day Dudley had died.

She sighed again and dried her face with her sleeve. Right now, she did not want to think of this any longer. Instead, she concentrated again on the sleeping child cradled in her arms. As she brushed a black lock out of his face, she noticed once more how cold he was, and her heart clutched with fear. Winter had already arrived with icy temperatures, and like every year, she was afraid that the child might not live to see spring coming. With his thin linen shirt and trousers and bare feet, he was by no means sufficiently protected from the cold. There was no fireplace in the room, and even if there had been one, her husband would hardly have wasted firewood on his hated nephew. The threadbare blanket was all that protected the already sickly boy from the icy frost. It seemed a miracle that he had survived the last five winters like this. Carefully, she wrapped the blanket tighter around him. All she could do was pray for yet another miracle.

Deeply absorbed in her worried thoughts, she had not heard the footsteps approach outside. All of a sudden the heavy door was flung open with a loud bang, and she found herself looking up at a tall, corpulent man, his coarse face red with anger.

"Vernon…"

With a few steps he was beside her and had torn the boy out of her arms, carelessly throwing him against the wall. Ignoring his nephew, who had screamed in pain and now began crying, he picked up the candle, grabbed his wife's wrist and dragged her roughly through the room and out of the door. She stumbled along silently, too frightened to speak. When they were outside, he pulled the keys from her pocket and began locking the door.

When he had finished this task, he turned, but not to speak to his wife. Instead, he opened the second door and stormed into the room. He approached the bed and rudely grabbed the man who was lying on it by the shoulders.

"Pettigrew, you good-for-nothing drunkard!" he roared, shaking the smaller man. "Pettigrew, wake up!" His servant, however, did not even stir, and with an exasperated grunt, Vernon let go of him. "I will deal with you tomorrow," he announced before he left the room and banged the door behind him.

Finally, he turned to stare at her, seething with anger. She instinctively backed away a few steps, until she felt the wall behind her.

"So this is how you obey my orders," he ground out, his thick moustache quivering as he fought for control. "How often did you sneak to him during the last weeks? How often did you seize the opportunity to coddle this creature, this… this abomination?" Disgust dripped from every word.

She did not answer, her gaze directed to the floor, her hands clenched tightly by her sides.

"It matters not how often," he finally said, and there was a determined edge to his voice that sent a chill down her spine. "Should anything like this ever happen again, I will take measures. I will take him to the city and leave him there. Alone. Do you understand?"

Silently, she nodded. Of course she understood. It would be Harry's death sentence. He could not survive on his own, and no one would want to burden themselves with him.

"Fine." Vernon turned away from her. "It seems it has paid that business took a few days shorter than I had expected. At least I now know how much you respect me." His voice was icy. "I would have been here earlier today, but a wheel of the carriage broke and had to be replaced. I have been travelling since sunrise and am tired. I expect you to be in my bedroom in fifteen minutes." With these words he walked away, taking the candle with him.

Alone in the dark, Petunia Dursley sank down on her knees. The desperate wailing of her nephew still audible through the door, she began to pray.

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**Glossary**

_Be not afraid_- At that time, negation/questions did not yet necessarily reqire the usage of the auxiliary verb do ("periphrastic do").

_Idiot_- In 19th and early 20th-century medicine and psychology, an "idiot" was a person with a very severe mental handicap. "Idiot" indicated the greatest degree of intellectual disability, where the mental age is two years or less, and the person cannot guard himself or herself against common physical dangers.

_At length_ - At last


	2. Chapter 02

**A/N:** Wow, I wouldn't have thought so many people would actually read this crazy stuff! Thanks to all who reviewed :)

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**Chapter 02 **

"Madam? Excuse me, but Master Dursley sends me. He asks you to get ready for the party."

Hastily, Petunia wiped away the tears from her eyes before she turned round and looked up. She had not heard her lady's maid enter the room, too absorbed had she been in her thoughts. She had not even noticed time fly by -- could it already be that late?

"What time is it?"

"It's almost seven, Madam," the girl replied, approaching her mistress, who was sitting on a chair by the window. "Master Dursley says the guests will arrive in an hour. I have already lit the lamps in the dressing room."

Petunia sighed. "Thank you, Ginevra. I shall come in an instant."

Her maid nodded, but worry was lacing her voice as she hesitantly continued. "Excuse me, Madam, are you not feeling well?"

Sighing again, Petunia directed her gaze to the cradle she had been staring at before in the flickering light of the candle she had lit when daylight had begun to fade. "It's nothing," she said, but it sounded unconvincing even to her own ears.

"Is it...because of the baby?"

Petunia turned and looked sharply at the maid, whose eyes had followed hers to the cradle. It was completely out of place for her servant to investigate her employers' personal affairs, and during the five months she had been working for them, Ginevra Weasley had never shown any signs of impudence. Under her mistress's sharp gaze, she now looked down at her hands, which were folded before her lap.

"I'm sorry, Madam, I had no right to pry."

After a few seconds, Petunia shook her head. The girl had apparently not meant to overstep her borders -- she had simply been worried for her mistress. Petunia surveyed the comely fifteen-year-old for some more moments: the neat black wool gown and white apron; the thick, red hair, welling out under the white bonnet; the worried freckled face; the bright brown eyes.

She was longing for someone to talk to, especially today. She did not have many friends, and to pour her heart out to her husband was entirely out of the question. But the lady's maid? The first woman occupying this position after their move to London had died from consumption eleven months ago. She had been a colourless, apathetic twenty-five-year-old by the name of Eloise, and certainly not someone with whom you would discuss anything personal, social gap let aside. Her successor, a handsome Asian girl, had been convicted of thievery a few months after she had taken up the employment, and Petunia had never liked or trusted Cho Chang very much in the first place. Ginevra Weasley, though…

"It has been a year today," she finally murmured softly, giving in to the urge to get her sorrow off her chest.

Her maid looked up at her, surprised, partially because of her mistress's sudden confidence in her, and partly because of the information she had received.

"I knew not that it was today." Her gaze wandered to the empty cradle again. "Perchance...Master Dursley could excuse you from the party?"

Petunia shook her head. "He likes it not when his wife indulges in self pity. And," she added sadly, "I doubt he even remembers that it was today. He...he chose to forget it pretty quickly, I think." The crisp fabric of her grey gown rustled as she hectically searched it for a handkerchief to wipe off the tears which again had begun to fall.

"Oh, Madam, I'm so very sorry," Ginevra exclaimed, sympathy clearly shining through in her voice. "But...you mustn't be so sad about it any more, you'll make yourself sick with grief." She hesitated for some seconds before she went on. "My mother had a stillborn child, too, but she had five more healthy children afterwards."

Petunia had managed to compose herself and rewarded the girl's attempt to comfort her with a weak smile. "How old was your mother when she had her last child?"

"She was twenty-nine when she had me. I'm the youngest."

"I am thirty-four now. It is not very likely that I will get pregnant again." Absently, Petunia reached out and brushed her fingers over the soft blanket in the cradle. "And if so...I doubt that I could keep the child."

"But, Madam..."

"No!" Petunia felt her chest narrow painfully. Since she had no one to talk to, she had hardly ever spoken about this subject. It was nothing she could discuss with the wives of her husband's business contacts. "I got pregnant for the first time when I was eighteen, shortly after I had married. I lost the child after five months, mauger my youth and health. It took almost two years until I got pregnant again. This time, the child survived. It was a boy, and we named him Dudley, after his grandfather."

Her hands clenched tightly around the handkerchief she was still holding in her lap. "He died from an accident when he was eight. I was with child three more times, and I lost all of them ere five months had gone by." It hurt to talk about it, and Petunia suddenly asked herself what exactly she was doing. Sharing her deepest feelings with a servant? It was more than a little inappropriate. Still, she could not help herself – now that she had begun, she needed to go on.

"I did not think I would get pregnant again; it had been five years since the last time. When I noticed it, I was afeard I would lose the child again, like all the others. But then I was eight months along, and I hoped that this time…" she trailed off, her gaze once again drawn to the unused cradle. When she spoke again, she sounded tired, resigned. "God has not granted me with the blessing of seeing my children grow up, and I must not complain about his decision."

There was an embarrassed silence before she spoke again. "Did the other servants not tell you?"

The girl shook her head. "They don't talk with me too much." She seemed unsure of whether or not she should go on, but eventually took heart. "They're jealous because my work is not as hard as theirs. But it's normal, " she added hastily, as if to dispel any indication that she might be complaining. "I'm used to it, and I care little about it."

Petunia nodded. It made sense as she thought about it. As the lady's maid, Ginevra attended to her mistress's appearance. She assisted Petunia in dressing and undressing and arranged her hair, she was responsible for her jewellery and wardrobe, including repairing and washing the more delicate habiliments like laces and fine linens, and also kept her mistress's room in order. It was much lighter work than that of most other servants like the cook, housemaids and footmen, and in addition, she was required to have good manners and be able to read and write. Her social status was in between her employers and the other servants, and it seemed logical that they should regard her with envy and not let her participate in their usual tattle.

Moreover, since they had not brought any of their old servants from Plymouth when they had moved to London after Dudley's death, it was unlikely that any of those who worked for them knew much about it anyway. Petunia had had one stillborn child half a year after their arriving, but they had never talked about the others or their dead son.

Or Harry.

Of course, they all knew that there was a boy, an idiot, and they also knew that they must not speak of him to anyone, but during the almost six years they had now been living here, Harry had not left his prison once, and neither had any of the servants entered it. Only Petunia, Vernon, and Harry's guard, Peter Pettigrew, had ever seen the child.

Thinking of Pettigrew, she scrunched up her nose in disgust. Until today she did not know what had possessed her husband to engage a man of such dubious character. She had no doubts that Pettigrew had been some kind of hoodlum before he had entered Vernon Dursley's service. But then, it was probably exactly that which had recommended him to her husband. Who else would take such a gruesome task upon himself voluntarily?

The incident from a week ago still fresh in mind, tears threatened again to fall, and she pressed her lips tightly together. Vernon would call her pathetic if he saw her, and to a certain extent, he was right. Why was it that she could not resign herself to what she could not change?

"Madam?" Her maid's voice tore her out of her musings. "Are you sure that you don't want to lie down?"

Petunia nodded, drawing a deep breath to calm herself down. "Enough of these cogitations! I think it would be best if I changed clothes now," she announced determinedly, getting up from her chair and putting away the handkerchief. She did not want to think about all this any more, especially since she had to act as a pleasant hostess tonight. Vernon would be most displeased should she show any signs of indisposition in front of his guests, and she could not afford to anger him. He had been harsher than usual during the last week, and all that she could do was try to please him as much as possible and pray that he might not exercise his demency upon their nephew.

She took the candle from the window sill, and Ginevra followed her silently as she approached the door and opened it. After she had graced the never used nursery in which she had spent the afternoon with a last glance, Petunia turned and headed for the dressing room.

* * *

In another part of London, Severus Snape had just entered his house and taken off his gloves in the entrance hall as he was approached by a second man clad in a butler's attire. The man was a little shorter than average, and this impression was increased by his slightly curved spine. His left arm was adorned with splints and resting in a sling before his abdomen.

"You are late," he greeted unceremoniously.

Severus only glared.

"You have not forgotten that you are supposed to make an appearance at Monsieur Dursley's dinner party in sixty minutes, have you?" The brunette spoke with a thick French accent.

"No, Lupin, I have not," Severus snapped, taking off his black hat and cloak and handing them to his servant along with the gloves. "But I nourished the ridiculous hope that you might have forgotten it." He made an effort to speak louder and more articulate than he would to another person, knowing the other man would not understand him otherwise.

Lupin smiled benignly, easily holding the habiliments he had been handed as though he was used to being limited in the use of his hands. "No such luck, I'm afraid, Monseigneur. Have I ever forgotten any of your appointments?"

"No," Severus grumbled as he began to walk towards the stairs leading up to the first floor. "You are a slave driver. You could make a good living over in America on a cotton plantation."

As Lupin, who had hung up his master's clothes, now hurried to follow him, the slight limp in his walk became more prominent. When he had arrived at Severus's side, the latter nodded in direction of the damaged arm.

"If I remember correctly, this arm was out of the sling only three days ago," he commented. "What happened?"

The answer was as short as meaningful. "Dora."

Severus snorted. He had expected this. "How did she do it this time?"

"Well, her wish to exit the kitchen collided with my wish to enter – and therefore the door with my arm. Rather violently, as I may say."

They had now arrived at the study on the first floor, and Severus halted, glancing down at the smaller brunette as he spoke.

"Mayhap we should look for another housemaid. It seems that Miss Tonks fails to comprehend the importance of carefulness in my house. This is the third time in only a year, not to forget the two broken ribs six months ago!"

Lupin shook his head. "She is a little clumsy, but a good housemaid and cook. I would keep her. Moreover," he added dryly, "she is the first who has not fled from you after a few weeks."

Again, Severus glared at him. "Mayhap I should look for a new butler as well." There was no force behind the words, however, and the other man's unimpressed face clearly showed that he knew that he did not have to fear for his position.

Severus now opened the door, and they entered the study. The room was large and flanked by crammed bookshelves on all four sides, interrupted only by the fireplace, the door on one and a small window behind the bulky oaken desk on the opposite wall. A green armchair was standing in front of the lit fireplace, and Severus slumped into it, scowling at the flickering flames. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He had felt a headache approaching when he head left the apothecary, and now it had arrived with all its might.

"Fine, let her stay," he agreed. "But tomorrow, I will have another talk with her!"

Secretly, Severus had to admit that Lupin was right: they had been in London for sixteen months now, and during the first four months, he had scared away five housemaids. And also before that, none had ever lasted longer than a month at the most. Nymphadora Tonks, however, had been working for him for almost a year now, and she showed no signs of being intimidated or annoyed by her master's harsh and grumpy behaviour. She was, as Severus thought surly, outright disgustingly cheerful. And exceptionally clumsy, too. She would have to take more care in the future! Lupin had had more broken bones in the course of the last year than during the five preceding ones.

"Lupin, get me…" he began, but broke off the sentence as a glass filled with an amber liquid appeared in his field of vision. He grabbed it and downed the scotch at once. "I should get drunk right now," he grumbled. "At least I would not mind that bloody dinner party so much. And perchance even Weasley's voice would disappear from my head."

An amused sound could be heard from his butler. "So, it was young Monsieur Weasley who gave you that headache," Lupin observed. "I had figured as much."

Severus chose not to glare at the man this time, knowing that it was of no use. "You find that funny only because you did not have to listen to him for two solid hours. Swap places with me, and your head will be close to exploding in no time. I will warrant that." He held out the glass to indicate that he wished it to be refilled, but Lupin simply carried it over to the cabinet and returned without a second drink.

"I remember you saying that he was an exceptionally gifted young man," he commented.

"He is! If only he could keep his mouth shut once in a while. He would convince me of his qualities also without that constant chatter of his!"

It was true: Percival Weasley was an astoundingly able organiser as well as an accurate book-keeper, and he showed much interest and ability in the field of pharmacy. Therefore, Severus had made him the chief clerk of his apothecary not too long ago. Weasley had not had the possibility to study medicine as Severus had done, but his employer was of the opinion that such a talent must not be wasted and now tutored him personally once a week. The young man's only annoying trait was his immense desire to please his superiors, which became manifest in him agreeing to every word Severus uttered, whatever nonsense it might be, and the enervating tendency to hold monologues showing off his knowledge in order to make a good impression.

"So, I take it that you miss Monsieur Bonnet, then?"

At this question, Severus grunted angrily. "The last thing that I miss about Paris is Olivier Bonnet!"

The mere thought of his quondam chief clerk was enough to raise his ideas. Not only had the man had a highly disagreeable character – and it took a lot to beat Severus himself in that field – no, he also had turned out to be unreliable and a thief. During their late time in Paris, there had been more and more discrepancies in the apothecary's monthly accountings. Bonnet had disavowed any involvement, of course, but Severus had finally managed to prove that he had not only peculated a considerable sum but also that it was he who had been stealing constantly from the pharmaceutical stock. In the end, Bonnet had been forced to admit that he had taken the missing amounts himself, being a laudanum addict, as well as selling them for exorbitant prices.

"Suddenly, Monsieur Weasley seems not so bad any more, does he?" Lupin's eyes twinkled amusedly, the odd purple tinge to the white of his eyes being more obvious as he was standing close to the flickering fire.

"You are a pest!"

The other man only smiled. "I have prepared your habiliments for the evening, Monseigneur. If you want to be in time, I suggest you change now."

Unwilling, yet without contradicting, Severus hoisted himself out of the armchair and, followed by his butler, left the study to head for the dressing room that was situated with the bedrooms on the second floor.

"Did you order Finnigan to unharness the horses when you arrived?"

"Of course not," Severus snapped back, climbing the last few stairs. "I perfectly knew that you would make me attend that accursed party! Do you honestly believe me so naïve to think that I could escape you today, when I have not managed to do so for the last ten years?" Not waiting for an answer, he entered the dressing room and closed the door behind him.

When some time later he exited the room again, his appearance had changed, subtly, yet noticeably. While he was still completely clad in black, the garments were finer, nobler. Instead of the normal, loose fitting trousers he preferred, Lupin had recently decided it necessary for him to wear tight pantaloons, at least at festivities. Severus greatly disliked them, for in his eyes, they made him look like a dandy – he was thirty-four, not twenty any more! The woollen fabric of the frock coat was more delicate than the ones he usually wore, and the lapels were of fine silk. A fitting silken cravat rounded off the picture, and the shoulder-length black hair was now tied up to a ponytail instead of dangling loosely around his face.

As he hurried down the stairs to the ground floor, a lout crash could be heard that seemed to be coming from somewhere in the rear of the house, probably the kitchen, followed by a loud shriek uttered by a female voice. Severus suppressed an annoyed groan. Whatever Dora had broken now, he did not want to know. He only hoped that it was dishes and not another of his butler's bones.

Just when he had put on his long, black cloak, the aforementioned, obviously – and to Severus's great but unexpressed relief – unharmed, emerged from a corridor that led to the kitchen.

"A tea set," he stated unasked as he approached. "Good that I have bought several reserve sets."

Severus stayed silent, closing the many buttons on the cloak. His household was, as he mused, certainly the oddest in all of London's aristocracy.

"Well, then," the other man smiled, holding out his hat and gloves for Severus to take. "I wish you a pleasant evening, Monseigneur."

"Exceeding funny," was the only comment Severus graced him with before he left the house to get to his carriage waiting outside.

* * *

**Glossary**

_mauger_ --------------- despite (from Middle English "maugree")

_footman_ ---------------- The footman was responsible for cleaning and refilling oil lamps, cleaning cutlery (important, in the era before stainless steel, to remove every trace of rust from steel knives and forks), polishing silver and copper plate, trimming boots, attending to fires throughout the day, setting the dining room table for breakfast/lunch/dinner, waiting at the table, setting up the tea tray for the lady of the house, accompanying the lady or the man of the house as they paid calls or shopped, delivering messages, valeting the young gentlemen in the family, and (in some cases) answering the front door. During dinner, when the head footman was not assisting the butler, he stood behind the chair of the lady of the house. Footmen dressed in livery.

_cogitations_ ----------- unpleasant thoughts

_exercise one's demency upon so._ --- vent one's wrath on so.

_warrant_ ---------------- guarantee. used like the modern expression "You bet."

_raise one's ideas_ ----------- make someone angry

_laudanum_ ------------- Laudanum was a wildly popular drug during the 19th century. It was an opium-based painkiller prescribed for everything from headaches to tuberculosis. Victorian nursemaids even spoon fed the drug to cranky infants, often leading to the untimely deaths of their charges. Many literary figures (among them Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelly, Charles Dickens, Coleridge and others) were know to indulge. The image of the romantic poet, pale, morose, drunk on absinthe and laudanum is a common one. King George IV (1762 – 1830) was addicted to the drug as well.

_exceeding_ ---------------------------- was used as an adverb


	3. Chapter 03

**A/N: **This is extremely embarrassing. I haven't updated this in a year and a half, and I'm very sorry. Writing fanfic just wasn't a big part of my life during that time - there were more important RL issues. Anyway, I'm back. Hope someone still remembers this...**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 03**

Slowly, the coach carried Severus away from his house at Chester Square and toward the unpleasantness that would be the Dursleys' dinner party. They were in no hurry, since Mayfair, their destination, was not far from Belgravia, and he had no intention to arrive earlier than necessary.

As he stared out of the window into the lantern-lit streets, listening to the monotonous clatter of hoofs on cobblestone, his thoughts were not directed toward the upcoming event, but rather his butler and his latest injury. The man had acted pleasantly as always, smiling and ordering him about in that mild and yet firm manner of his that Severus had grown so accustomed to that he would have felt something missing if Lupin had ever refrained from doing it. He had not been able to fool his employer, though. Severus had not missed that the man had been paler than usual, or the pained lines around his mouth, or how he had flinched only minimally when handling Severus's clothes.

After the accident, Lupin must have sent Dora to get Dr. Dumbledore, Severus' family doctor since he had been small, just like the previous times when Severus had not been present to take care of matters personally. He knew that Dumbledore must have done his best – which was better than most of his colleagues could have done, despite his old age – splinted the arm neatly and prescribed Lupin a dose of laudanum for the pain, telling him to rest. And he knew just as certainly that Lupin must have taken some laudanum, but not enough – not enough to make him incapable of carrying out his duties, even though he had a freshly broken arm that would not be easy to heal by any means.

Severus wished he could shake some sense into the man, but he had no illusions about that. Preventing Lupin from working while he was still able to walk was about as easy as making the sun run the opposite course. It was, as Severus suspected, because Lupin was perfectly aware that under normal circumstances, it was far more likely that he would have starved to death on the streets of Paris by now rather than working for an English aristocrat. It seemed that he still believed himself to be indebted to Severus – who, on the other hand, thought that it was he who was in Lupin's debt. Without Lupin, he might very well have lost his life in Paris ten years ago.

* * *

**Paris, 1819**

In the late afternoon of a busy August day, Severus was on his way back to the apothecary from visiting several customers at home. The weather was hot and sticky – an entirely unpleasant experience to him, as he had moved from London to Paris two years ago and still found it difficult to adjust to the different climate. He was tired and moody and not paying much attention to his surroundings, only looking forward to the cool darkness of the apothecary's cellar, where he prepared his various medicines. It had been a dangerous mistake, as he had realised only moments later.

He looked neither to the left nor to the right as he crossed a large, bustling street, too absorbed in his thoughts to see or hear the quickly approaching coach. Only too late did he hear the collective outcry of the surrounding crowd, which had already seen him trampled down by iron-shod hoofs – then he felt a violent push, and only seconds later, he found himself on the ground, shocked, but unharmed.

When he had regained his senses enough to sit up and realise what had happened, he noticed that the attention of the crowd that had amassed was no longer focussed on him, but on a man lying only a few steps away from him on his back. He appeared to be unconscious, blood trickling from a laceration on his temple onto the street and into his brown hair, both legs and one arm twisted in unnatural angles. It was he who had pushed him out of the coach's way, Severus realised, and as a result, he had ended up being run over by the horses, which the driver was still trying to calm down a short distance down the road.

It soon turned out, upon inquiry, that nobody present knew him, which was not astonishing in the slightest. Judging by the dirty rags he was wearing, he seemed to be one of the countless beggars swarming the streets of Paris - a grey, faceless mass to the ones for whose charity they hoped daily.

It was obvious to Severus that the man's legs and arm were broken – and probably also some ribs, although that would only be possible to tell after a more thorough examination. Equally obvious was the fact that, beside Severus himself and the driver of the coach, who had finally managed to soothe his horses and was now standing beside Severus with a partly angry and partly helpless expression, nobody would move a finger to help the injured man. Severus knew that in the end, there was only one thing he could possibly do, loathe as he might be to admit it. It was his fault that any of this had happened; therefore, it was his responsibility to make sure that his saviour would be given adequate medical treatment.

Had he or anyone else known how to contact the man's family, if he had one, he could have brought him home and called a doctor to take care of him. He could have paid for his treatment as long as necessary, thanked him appropriately when he was up to having visitors, and would never have had to worry about the whole incident again. Considering the circumstances, however, this was not an option.

For some moments, Severus pondered bringing him to a hospital, the Hôtel-Dieu maybe, since it was the nearest, but he quickly discarded the idea again. Public hospitals were not a good place for a sick person to be, at least in his opinion. If he brought the man to such a place, it was more than likely that corrupt doctors would simply take Severus's money and then let the man entrusted to their care die. He was only a beggar whom nobody would miss. And even if Severus threatened to come back and look after him, they could still claim that there had been nothing they could do, and that he had died despite their best efforts. No, he realised, there was only one safe option left.

And so it came that he and the driver of the coach, who was more than relieved that the only consequence for him would result in a short drive across the city, picked up the unconscious man and brought him to the coach, which then took Severus and him to the former's home. They carried him upstairs, to the flat right above the apothecary, and laid him down in Severus's own bed – a place that the stranger would not leave during the next three months.

Usually, healthy bones took no longer than six weeks to heal, provided they were splinted properly and the patient resting enough to not overstrain himself. However, after three days, Remus Lupin – Severus had found out his name on the second day, when the other one had been awake and able to speak for a short while – developed a traumatic fever the likes of which Severus had not seen before. For almost three weeks, all he could do was give Lupin laudanum for the pain, make leg compresses, change the sweat-soaked bed sheets daily, and force him to drink as much as possible. When the fever was finally gone, leaving Lupin skeletal and weak like a newborn, his bones had barely begun to heal.

Severus's guest was amazingly compliant and patient. He never complained, barely showed that he was in pain even when Severus examined him, obediently took what medicine he was given, and, once his appetite returned, let Severus feed him regular meals with an expression of quiet and incredulous bliss that made Severus loathe himself for every time that he had complained about the cook back at his father's house in England.

Being extremely peevish and politic in character, Severus was surprised at how little Lupin's presence irritated him. In the beginning, all he had wanted was to heal him as quickly as possible, preferably without having to talk to him too much, if at all. But after some time, he found himself more and more often sitting at Lupin's bedside, asking questions, or, on Lupin's request and despite his taciturn nature, telling about life in England – something the sick man seemed to absorb like a sponge, never getting tired of hearing about the foreign customs and ideas. He seemed intelligent and sensible, and after eight weeks, Severus thought for the first time that it would be a shame if the other one were to return to his old life once he was recovered.

After losing an initial embarrassed shyness when discovering that the man whose bed he was occupying and who would feed him and change his nappies like he had never done anything else was in fact an aristocrat who had grown up in a house full of servants, Lupin had willingly disclosed the facts of his life to his host – not that there was much to tell. He was twenty, four years younger than Severus, the youngest of four surviving children, born in one of the poorest quartiers of the city to a family of beggars, and begging – and, as Severus suspected without mentioning it aloud, stealing - was all that he had ever learnt.

He would have liked to work, he said, do anything else but begging, but since of course, he could neither read nor write, all that was left would have been hard physical work, something that was practically impossible. It was at this point of their conversations that also the mystery of Lupin's incredibly slowly healing bones seemed to get solved.

As a little child, he had had broken bones constantly. He had simply needed to trip and fall, be slapped and stumble against the wall, or be grabbed by the arm and dragged along too roughly to make his bones break like brittle pottery. And while they had been healing quickly, as they usually did when you were a child, he had been frequently breaking others, so that it had been normal for anyone who knew him to see him with a splinted arm, or limping along on badly carved crutches, or not turning up for some time outside the filthy little room that his family inhabited, because some broken bone barred him from getting up. It was, as Severus thought, a miracle that he had survived even infancy, considering that his injuries had probably never received any proper care by a professional.

Their son's disability had not, however, prevented Lupin's parents from taking him out to beg when he was small, and sending him out on his own when he was a little older. It was a common strategy to pretend illness and injury in order to appear pathetic, and thus squeeze a drop of pity out of the hardened Parisian hearts - and a coin out of their purses. If the injuries were real, all the better. At least this would ensure that his performance was perfect.

"And I _was_ good," Lupin said with a weary smile, obviously aware of how strange it must be for the other man to hear someone pride himself on being a good beggar.

As he grew older, his bones broke less easily, much to his relief, but hard work was still out of the question. Begging, however, had become increasingly difficult, since people gave to children more readily than to adults, and even then, women were better off than men. And stealing – Lupin had looked Severus firmly in the eyes while talking, but his flushed cheeks had betrayed his shame nevertheless – stealing was more dangerous for him than for others. And something else had changed as well: when he now broke a bone, it took much longer to heal than before; longer, in fact, than a normal adult's would.

After the initial surprise, it had made sense to Severus. He had heard about this at university from an old professor of his. The professor was married to a Swedish woman from a city called Uppsala, and one of their acquaintances, as Severus now remembered, had been a physician named Ekman, who had written about a disease with just the symptoms Lupin seemed to display. Additionally to breaking bones easily, patients with osteomalacia congenital, as Ekman had called it, were often smaller than average and had an odd blue or purplish colouring of the whites of the eyes – something he had been wondering about from the beginning when he had seen it in Lupin.

After three months, Lupin was restored enough to get up and limp around on crutches, his right leg having healed much faster than the left. That was the first time that he talked about leaving, but Severus would hear nothing of it. Lupin could barely stay on his feet for ten minutes, and it would be irresponsible to just send him out in the streets, he argued. So Lupin stayed. And during the next month, whenever the topic would arise, Severus would find a reason to convince both of them that it was too early by far for him to leave.

When, after four months, Severus resumed his work at least enough to make two or three short visits with patients every day, he would more and more frequently come home to find his rooms cleaned and meals cooked, and he had to admit that, even though he had easily adjusted to not having servants after leaving home, he liked it, had even missed it. He had never been able to keep a housemaid longer than just a few weeks, for they all were driven away by his moody temper and cynical remarks, being either scared or annoyed by them. Lupin, it seemed, was completely immune against this, replying with noncommittal smiles at the most – if he did not outright ignore it.

Severus soon realised that he would be insane if he let the man go. Lupin was learning to adjust his deficient manners accordingly to his host's at a surprising rate. He was silent when Severus wanted to be left alone, a pleasant listener when he wanted to talk, and seemed to have the eerie ability to know when which was the case. Additionally, he proved to be a quick learner when Severus began teaching him how to read and write.

One evening after six months, when there was no excuse left why Lupin should have stayed any longer, Severus finally asked him to work for him as a servant. Lupin accepted immediately, then excused himself and disappeared in the spare room where they had set up a bed for him. Severus could hear him cry through the thin, wooden door, and, even though embarrassed, felt pleased with himself for the first time in years.

* * *

Severus was awoken from his reminiscences when the carriage stopped, the voice of the coachman telling him that they had arrived at their destination. He nestled his watch out of the fob pocket and saw that it was five minutes after eight. Well, then, he would wait another ten minutes before entering the Dursleys' house. He would be one of the last, meaning that he would not have to go through numerous introduction ceremonies, but simply meet the host and hostess and be generally introduced to the assembled party. He certainly could do without subjecting himself to countless flowery phrases along the lines of "I am so pleased to finally meet you in person!" or "I have heard so much of you already!" In the course of the evening, he would have to listen to enough mindless chitchat anyway.

Waiting in the carriage, his thoughts returned once more to Lupin. The man had turned into a perfect butler over the years, and Severus would not know what to do without him any more. His calm seemed almost unshakable, no matter Severus's mood, and over time, he had developed the ability of ordering Severus about when it was necessary without annoying him too much - like today, when his employer would much rather have stayed at home. They both knew that they were friends rather than master and servant, but they had never felt it necessary to mention that particular fact. When Severus had returned to England more than eight years after meeting him, the question whether or not Lupin should accompany him had never arisen. He would have been a fool to leave him behind - and he would be a fool as well if he let the nonsense currently happening in his house go on much longer. As he had told Lupin before, he would have a serious conversation with Dora tomorrow.

Over these musings, time went by quickly, and finally, he could not put off any longer what was awaiting him. When he entered the house, he was met by two footmen at the door, one of which immediately took off to announce his presence to the host, the other one taking care of Severus's hat, coat, and gloves, before leading him to the parlour on the first floor, where everyone had gathered.

Vernon Dursley was already awaiting him at the doorway, apparently bursting with enthusiasm at his distinguished guest's sight.

"Aaahh, Lord Snape, what a pleasure to welcome you at my home at last!"

He had roared loud enough to draw the attention of a whole marketplace, and consequently, every conversation that had been going on before Severus's arrival came to an abrupt halt, and all eyes settled on him.

Severus had been expecting this. It was downright ridiculous how eager people without a title, yet in the possession of an abundance of money, were to know a member of the aristocracy, so that they could claim connections and boast about it in front of their family, friends, and acquaintances. That Severus was a mere baronet and thus bore the lowest title in existence, and that he was moreover working to earn a living – something that was considered as almost unspeakable shame among most of the other members of the nobility – did not seem to matter. What was important was the "Lord" in front of his name, much like an adequately sightly mongrel dog would be considered worthy to be shown off, as long as he had a shiny enough collar.

He, himself, hated the ado that was made about his birth, and class conceit was the last thing anyone could have accused him of. Had his father not be well-known in London, he would have been tempted to pretend to be no more than a common chemist, just as he had done in Paris.

"Come, Mylord, you have to meet my wife," Dursley announced, and Severus complied, letting the man lead him away to a group of women, who were apparently in the middle of an animated conversation.

"Petunia, my dear, may I have your attention for a moment? I want you to meet Lord Snape."

With these words, Dursley took the arm of a tall, blond woman in a midnight-blue silk dress, who had been standing with her back to them until now. When she turned around, Severus experienced a surprise. He would have trusted Dursley, who was ten years his senior, to have a very young, beautiful, and rather unintelligent wife. It would have fitted perfectly in the picture that he had formed of the man in his mind. This woman, however, did not fit in either of the first two categories. She was at least thirty, and looked nothing like the plump, rosy girls that were considered of the utmost beauty these days. Instead, she was thin and pale, and neither the complicated hairstyle, nor the expensive-looking jewellery, or the unobtrusive rouge on her cheeks could completely hide an impression of being tired and careworn.

Her behaviour, however, betrayed nothing of this sort, for she smiled at Severus pleasantly, extending her hand to him.

"Mylord, my husband has told me so much about you already! I have been looking forward to meeting you for such a long time now! It is an honour for us to be able to welcome you here."

Hearing her voice caught Severus completely off-guard. It was as though he had heard it before, as though he knew her, had met her someplace else in the past, but he could not remember this ever being the case. It was a strange feeling of déjà-vu – something that had never happened to him before. He managed, however, not to let his confusion show, greeting her with a polite kiss on the hand.

"On the contrary, I am honoured by your hospitality, madam."

Having exchanged some more pleasantries with the hostess – and having failed to recall where he had heard a voice like hers before – Severus was soon occupied by her husband again, who insisted he meet some of his business acquaintances before dinner began. Ere long, he was standing with a group of spice merchants like Dursley, who were having a rather lively discussion about prices and the dangers of shipwreck and pirates, arguing which was the safest route to take home to England from India.

While he listened half-heartedly and sipped at a glass of sherry that he had been handed by one of the footmen, Severus had a look around the room. He knew almost none of the other guests, the exception being the young owner of a shipping company, Zacharias Smith, who had been introduced to him by tonight's host several months ago, when a ship of his had arrived that had been bearing several expensive foreign herbs which Severus had ordered from Dursley.

His gaze was soon drawn back to Mrs. Dursley, however, since his mind was still occupied with what had happened some minutes earlier. The more he watched her, the more confused he was getting. There was something indefinable about her, something about the way she moved and carried herself, that was familiar to him. And yet, he was unaware of ever having seen her before. If so, it must have happened before his departure to Paris twelve years ago – but this was, as he thought, highly unlikely. He knew that the Dursleys had moved to London only six years ago.

Finally, after uselessly wrecking his mind for some time, Severus decided that he must be wrong about it. Maybe she was simply reminding him of another woman he had met, a patient for example. With this thought, he managed to tear his eyes away from her and engage in the conversation at hand, having been asked about the kind of herbs that he was in need of from Dursley by one of the other spice merchants, who was apparently thinking of supplying for chemists as a new business idea for himself.

It was about ten minutes later that dinner was announced to be ready, and men and women began building pairs that would sit together during the evening.

"Mylord, may I introduce you to Mrs. Murray – her late husband was a friend of mine and a partner in various business dealings."

"It is a pleasure, Madam," Severus said stiffly as he indicated a bow to the woman Dursley had chosen to be his dinner partner for tonight.

After assuring how wonderful it was to meet him, Mrs. Murray, a stout, grey-haired widow in a bright red dress, and with just as red cheeks, immediately began chattering, obviously intending to make known to him each and every advantage that her three beautiful, young granddaughters possessed.

Severus suppressed a sigh as he took her arm and followed the others to the dining room. It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

**Glossary**

_Chester Square_ -- Chester Square is a small, residential garden square located in London's exclusive Belgravia district. Along with its sister squares Belgrave Square and Eaton Square, Chester Square is one of the most desirable addresses in London.

_Belgravia_ ---- Belgravia is a district of central London in the City of Westminster, situated to the south-west of Buckingham Palace. Belgravia is characterised by grand terraces of white stucco houses, and is focused on the Belgrave Square and Eaton Square. It was one of London's most fashionable residential districts from the beginning, and remains so to this day.

_Mayfair_ --- Mayfair is an area of central London in the City of Westminster, named after the annual fortnight-long May Fair that took place there from 1686 until it was banned in that location in 1764. Most of the area was first developed between the mid 17th century and the mid 18th century as a fashionable residential district, by a number of landlords. Mayfair is the most expensive property on a British Monopoly set.

_Hôtel-Dieu_ --- Hôtel-Dieu ("hostel of God") is the old name given to the principal hospital in French towns. Hôtel-Dieu de Paris is regarded as the oldest hospital in the city of Paris, being founded in the year AD 660.

_politic_ --- careful in the sense of human relations.

_quartier_ --- district/quarter in French.

_Olof Jakob Ekman_ --- He described osteogenesis imperfecta in 1788, in a doctoral thesis for the University of Uppsala. He described a family in which persons in three generations had a condition that he termed "osteomalacia congenita". (Dissertatio medica descriptionem et casus aliquot osteomalaciæ sistens. Uppsala, 1788.)


	4. Chapter 04

**Chapter 04 **

"So, tell me, why are you working as a chemist? It seems a little peculiar for a man in your position, don't you agree? Is it some kind of hobby-horse?"

Severus had soon realised that Mrs. Murray did not posses any sense of social tact. Even he would not have asked such an indiscrete question that put the one to answer it in a more than embarrassing situation. He tried to swallow any sarcastic remark along with the bite of deliciously spiced chicken, but it was too hard a temptation for him to withstand it.

"No, Madam, it is not. My father made some unfortunate decisions which caused me to realise at an early age that I, just as most other people, would have to work for my living. I do not think that working is anything to be ashamed of, and I certainly do not believe in the often proclaimed differences between nobility and commoners. With the exception, of course, that the former have at least some tact."

To his great contentment, his dinner partner looked extremely consternated after this and, not knowing what to reply, took refuge in her food, which left him with some time to recover from her incessant talking. Instead, he turned his attention toward the discussion that had come up at the other side of the table.

"...that railways have no future. Every sensible person should know this," Cornelius Fudge, a friend from Dursley's club, just claimed, sounding absolutely convinced of his position. "I cannot understand how people can be this obsessed with those noisy, smoky monsters. It's just the second line section they built, yes, but if it goes on like this, the whole country will be littered with them in a matter of years! And how could it not be dangerous? Humans were not made to travel at that speed – the inner organs will get squashed!"

He had talked himself into excitement, his round head with the sparse hair had turned red, and even across the table, Severus could see the droplets of perspiration on his nose and forehead.

"Well, then, Mr. Fudge, we should tell the inner organs of everyone who has been riding a train during the four years since they built the first railway, including myself, that they forgot to behave appropriately. I am sure they will be very grateful that you reminded them of this fact. Otherwise, we might have lived on unharmed for years, and we surely cannot let that happen!"

General laughter ensued after this reply from Mr. Smith's wife, an intelligent-looking young woman in a light blue dress and with bushy brown hair that seemed about to escape the shape into which it had been forced by clasps and ribbons at any moment.

Fudge had gone even redder and now was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, in vain searching for an answer.

"From what I have read," she went on more seriously, "travelling by rail is perfectly safe. The laws of nature do not suggest any danger for animals or humans at that speed. Of course, that is not to say that there might not be a limit as to what speed is safe. But if so, it has not yet been discovered."

"If you would only let her, Hermione would tell you all about the studies she has read about it, and then we could not talk about anything else all evening long," her husband now remarked, sounding amused and proud at the same time.

"Oh, but why would you waste your time with something like that, Madam?" Dursley asked. "There surely are more interesting things for a woman to do than reading about science. And for aught I know, even most men have enough difficulties to comprehend that scientific babble to begin with."

"I happen to think that since woman, just as men, are in possession of a brain, they surely must be able to use it for something else than thinking about dresses, playing the piano, or being a pleasant hostess. A woman can certainly understand and do anything that a man does."

She sounded irritated and had spoken in a sharp tone, loud enough to draw general attention, and by now, every other conversation around the table had stopped.

"That may be so," Dursley replied, sounding anything but convinced, "but tell me, Madam, what about the children? Who will take care of them if women start behaving like men?"

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say, since Mrs. Smith looked anything but pleased.

"Men and women are perfectly equal in abilities, and there is no reason whatsoever that men could not look after children as well. We should start putting that into practice instead of clinging to mediaeval ideas. Just as we are not mindless, pretty dolls to show off, we are not broodmares, either!"

"Now, now," a spice merchant named Milward rose to speak, obviously trying to prevent the atmosphere from getting ruined completely. "I believe not that Mr. Dursley meant to imply anything of that sort. We all value our wives to the highest degree, don't we, gentlemen?"

The embarrassed silence was broken by various exclamations of agreement, and Dursley was the first to rise for a toast. "To our wives! Where would we be without them?"

The other men followed him quickly and drank to the health of their wives, including Mr. Smith, who seemed to be relieved that the whole episode had ended without even greater embarrassment for him. Nevertheless, he found himself at the receiving end of pitying glances more than once over the next few minutes, and his wife was regarded with alienation by both, men and women.

Severus silently agreed with Mrs. Smith, although he would not have been so blunt in expressing his opinion as she had been. If he had ever married, he would have wanted an intelligent and sensible wife; someone with whom he could talk about various topics that interested them both: a partner, not just a 'mindless, pretty doll', as she had put it so fittingly.

Since Mrs. Murray was not showing any inclination to accept him into her good graces again, Severus turned his attention to Mrs. Dursley, who was sitting to his left. It would be appropriate to now make some civil conversation with the hostess, and he knew that it would please Dursley a great deal to see his wife interacting with his important guest. It was without doubt for this reason that he had placed them next to each other.

"Your husband told me, Madam, that you came to London six years ago and lived in Plymouth before that. I spent two years there when I was still a child. I was only twelve when I left, but from what I remember, I must say it is a very appealing city."

What he did not mention was that his stay in Plymouth had been anything but pleasant. He had been living with an elderly grand-uncle of his mother's side of the family – his only relative beside his father at that time. Uncle Theodore, as his father had hoped, would be able to discipline him better than he, himself was capable of. Severus was a wild and stubborn boy, Lord Snape had emphasised in his letters, and needed a strong hand. The grand-uncle had taken this to heart and had been more than generous with the rod. Severus had been incredibly relieved when the old man had died unexpectedly and he had been allowed to return home.

"You are right, it is," Petunia now replied with a smile. "I was most sorry to leave, but my husband wanted to expand his business, and there is no city like London for a man of his profession."

"Well, I, at least, am glad that you moved here. Doing business with your husband is certainly a gratifying experience." He did not even have to lie considerably, for even though Dursley was anything but pleasant company – boisterous, self-absorbed, and eager to please his aristocratic customer, Severus found his presence annoying at best – his wares were always of the highest quality, and his prices were more than acceptable. Severus could not wish for more.

Having discovered that they had both lived in the same city, they continued to speak of it, making light conversation about things they both remembered. But although he tried to concentrate on what was being said, Severus could not help getting momentarily distracted again and again. The feeling of dejà-vu that had assaulted him so unexpectedly before dinner was now returning even stronger – could it really be no more than coincidence?

"And have you ever been to France, Madam? To Paris, mayhap?" he finally asked. It was possible, after all, that they had met there years ago, although it did not to seem very likely to him.

"Paris? Oh, no." She shook her head. "I have never left England. We were hardly ever away from my father's estate in Kent when I was a child. When I was sixteen, my parents decided that we needed to be introduced into society, as was befitting for the daughters of a baronet, and we spent the next two summer seasons in London. I married my husband at the age of eighteen and moved with him to Plymouth, and after that to London."

Severus was not truly surprised to learn that she was from an aristocratic family. Nowadays, marriages between commoners and members of the nobility were not unthinkable any more, especially when the commoner, like Vernon Dursley, was rich, or, in the case of a woman, her parents were able to bestow her with an opulent dowry.

"You mentioned 'daughters'," he inquired. "So you have a sister, or several?"

A shadow seemed to settle on her face, but her voice was still pleasant and calm as she replied. "I...had a sister. Her name was Lily; she was a year younger than I. We married at the same time, but she and her husband, Lord James Potter, died four years later in an accident."

Severus stared at her for several moments, then he raised his glass and downed the rich, red wine in two large gulps that contradicted every etiquette. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense.

"Your father was Lord Rupert Evans, am I not right?" he asked when he had put the glass down again. "I was sure that I had met you before today, but I could not remember where, or when. But now..." He found it hard to control himself and keep his voice calm. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he inwardly scolded himself for being ridiculous. All of this lay seventeen years in the past! It was unbelievable that the fact of Lily's death should make him feel so upset.

"I knew your sister," he finally managed to say. "We met when I was seventeen, and she sixteen, in Hyde Park. She was taking a walk with her family. When I walked by, I was distracted by a wasp, and so I got too close and stepped on her dress."

Thankfully, he felt himself calm down, and it did not seem as if anyone else had noticed his excitement, since nobody was paying attention to their conversation. There was much laughing at the other side of the table, where Mr. Fudge had apparently once more earned himself ridicule.

"I managed to stumble and fall flat on my face." He could not help smiling slightly at the memory. "It was not the perfect manner of getting to know a young lady, but it did work. My nose was bleeding, and Lily gave me her handkerchief. Your father allowed me to bring it back the next day, and he gave me your address in London."

Mrs. Dursley had looked confused at first, but now her face lit up with recognition.

"Yes, I remember you," she said slowly. "You visited several times, but I did not see you often. I was very ill that summer and had to spend most of the time in bed. From what I remember, Lily always spoke very fondly of you."

.-.-.

Petunia found it hard to stay composed as they talked about her sister. All evening long, she had tried her best not to think of Harry, or rather, not too extensively, since it was outright impossible to fully ban him from her mind. The sight of all the exquisite food alone, together with the knowledge that her nephew would not receive any of it although there would be many leftovers, made her heart clench and left her unable to relish any of the dishes. To her, everything tasted as insipid as starch.

She had succeeded in her role thus far, however, determined to please her husband. It had been a relief to find a topic about which she and Lord Snape could talk easily, for she knew that Vernon expected her to entertain his most valued guest and make a positive impression.

Under any other circumstances, learning that they shared a connection and had known each other – be it ever so briefly – in the past would have been a fortunate occurrence, but as it were, she wished that she had kept the existence of her sister secret. She had not mentioned her deliberately, but had simply spoken of "daughters" because it was true and she had been too distracted by the pleasant conversation to watch her tongue.

"I am very sorry to hear of her death," she now heard Snape say. "She was a remarkable woman." He sounded genuinely saddened, which made her feel only worse. She had loved Lily, and her death had hit her hard. Caring for her son had, in a way, helped her to cope with the grief. It had been as though in Harry, a part of Lily had stayed with her. But even that had been taken from her.

"You are right, she was." She reached out for her glass and found that her hand was shaking. Hastily, she took the glass and drank, hoping that the wine would help her to calm herself.

"If I may ask, did she have any children?"

Snape had spoken softly, and she knew that nobody but she had heard him, but to Petunia, it felt as though the question were echoing through the entire room. Her chest suddenly felt constricted, her breathing shallow, and she lowered her eyes to the only half emptied plate in front of her.

"No," she said, her voice sounding flat and shaky to her own ears. "No, there...were no children."

The dining room was warm and brightly lit by a multitude of candles, but all of a sudden, it was as if the darkness and cold from outside the large windows had crept inside, and it made her skin crawl. Staring down at the chicken, potatoes and sauce on the delicate china, she suddenly felt nauseous. To think that she had just denied the existence of a child that was being kept under worse conditions in this very house than one would keep any animal, a child that she loved as her own, the only of her children that was left to her...

Before she could think about what she was doing, she had gotten up from the table abruptly, almost knocking over the chair in her haste.

"I...I am sorry, you must excuse me for a few minutes!"

She felt a sob rising in her chest, and she covered her mouth with a hand to prevent it from breaking free as she quickly hurried toward the door, unaware and uncaring of the astonished glances that followed her.

.-.-.-.

All conversations stopped around the table as Mrs. Dursley suddenly rose and, after a murmured apology, ran out of the room in a most undignified manner.

Severus, like all the others, stared after her in surprise. He had not thought that the topic of their conversation would upset her like this. After thirteen years, could her sister's death still disconcert her so much? He could not have known, but he nevertheless felt responsible for what had happened.

"I fear this is my fault," he said into the silence, addressing their host. All eyes immediately settled on him. "Mrs. Dursley and I found that we shared a connection over her sister. We met here in London before they both married. I did not know that she had passed away and inquired after her. It must have upset her more than I imagined it would."

Dursley frowned for a moment. "You could not have known," he then said, "but my wife was indeed very fond of her sister. They were close, and she never fully recovered from her loss." He rose from his chair as well. "It will be the best if I look after her, but please, worry not. I shall be back soon, and in the meantime," he now looked around the table to address all of his guests, "please enjoy yourselves. I am sure that my wife will recover quickly and join us again. She would not wish to miss your company tonight."

With these words, he left the room, and once more, an uncomfortable silence fell.

"Oh, the poor woman!" Mrs. Murray finally exclaimed. "It is as Mr. Dursley said: she never got over her sister's death. Whenever it is touched upon, she becomes quite miserable; I have witnessed it myself in the past. It is sad, but it must also be wonderful to have a sibling that you love so much. I wish I could say the same about my sisters and myself."

Apparently, the incident had made her forget about her indignation concerning Severus, for she now turned to him. "Do you have any siblings, Mylord?"

"No," Severus replied curtly. Around them, the other guests slowly began talking again – about Mrs. Dursley ad her sister, no doubt, or about their own relationships with their siblings – but he felt no inclination to participate in this kind of conversation, and least of all with Mrs. Murray.

"Please excuse me," he said, "but I think it would be appropriate to go and offer my apologies to Mrs. Dursley privately. After all, it was I who brought up this unfortunate topic." Before Mrs. Murray could contradict, he had already risen and was on his way to the door.

Outside the dining room, Severus leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. It was true that he intended to apologise to Mrs. Dursley, but more than anything, he had wanted to get away from the assembled party for a few minutes in order to be alone with his thoughts.

Despite having gotten over his initial shock, he still felt greatly saddened about the fact that Lily was dead. Had it been any other acquaintance from the past, he would have acknowledged it with no more than vague pity, like most did when hearing about the death of someone they had once known and did not dislike. Lily, however, was different.

He had only been seventeen, and he knew with hindsight that it had been foolish, but at that time, he had been madly in love with her. Lily Evans, with her green eyes, dark red hair and rosy skin had seemed to him like the epitome of feminine beauty. She had laughed often, had been friendly and intelligent, and if she might have had any negative sides, he had not noticed them in his youthful infatuation.

She had appeared to take a liking to him as well, and for a few weeks in the late summer of 1812, Severus had been in heaven. He had visited her for tea, and they had taken walks in the park, all under the watchful eyes of either her father or mother. As the summer had been nearing its end, however, she had more and more often been indisposed, and finally, her mother had explained to him in kind but determined words that they would prefer it if he stopped visiting, and that he would not be allowed to write her once they would return to Kent.

As it turned out, Lily's parents had made their own enquiries about Severus's family in addition to what he had told them, and what they had heard had left them anything but pleased. Let aside his obvious youth, with a father who had been forced to sell all his estates except for his house in London, and who was constantly diminishing his already frighteningly shrunken fortune by drinking and gambling to excess, the advantage of Severus's noble birth was insignificant. An uncertain future and an ill-reputed father-in-law were unthinkable for Lord Evan's daughter.

Severus had been devastated, but there had been nothing that he could have done. Only a week later, the Evans family had left London, and a lengthy billet-doux that he had sent regardless of the interdiction had been sent back unopened, along with a letter by her father, consisting of stern admonitions to stop trying to contact his daughter immediately. He had had no chance but to obey, and although it had flared up again when a year later, he had incidentally learnt that she had married a rich baron by the name of Potter, he had eventually overcome his heartache and anger. But he had not been able to look favourably at any woman since then, and the idea of marriage had never crossed his mind again.

Knowing that she had died so young, he now could not help wondering what would have happened had their ways not been separated so abruptly. Could she have been happy with him? Would she still be alive? It had been years since he had last engaged in such inane speculations, and he felt stupid for doing so, but it seemed that they imposed themselves upon him without his own doing.

Severus had walked some steps away from the dining room, and suddenly, his musings were interrupted by what seemed to be a raised voice. To his left, he noticed a narrow corridor, and as he took a look into it, he saw light falling through a door that was only ajar. It was from there that the voice was coming, and now he recognised it as the one of their host.

"...of that creature! Is it asking too much of you not to embarrass me like that in front of our guests? I will not tolerate anything like this in the future, do you understand me? The next time, there will be consequences!"

With growing unease, Severus realised that the person Dursley was berating at the top of his voice must be his wife. The yelling had stopped now, and instead, there was a much lower voice speaking, interrupted by occasional sobs.

He knew that the only correct course of action was to leave immediately and go back to the dining room. What a man did to discipline his wife was of nobody else's business. It would only embarrass everyone if it was discovered that he had witnessed such a scene.

Severus was about to turn and leave when the crying was abruptly stopped by the unmistakable sound of flesh connecting with flesh, and he froze in his tracks.

There was a short silence, then Mr. Dursley spoke again. "I will go back to our guests. I await you to join us within then minutes, and I will not accept any excuses."

A low, almost inaudible answer, then footsteps into the direction of the door. In just a few seconds, Dursley would notice him. Quickly, Severus turned around and hurried to the opposite side of the corridor, away from the dining room, and disappeared behind the corner. Carefully looking around the edge, he saw Mr. Dursley come out of the smaller corridor and walk toward the dining room, which he then entered.

He took some moments to allow his pulse beat to return to normal before he wondered about his further course of action. It was out of the question that he should ever let on that he had born witness to what had happened, although he would have more than gladly told Dursley his opinion on men who hit their wives. It was commonly accepted that it was their right to do so, but Severus found it to be detestable. To use one's greater physical strength against the own wife when there were no other arguments left was nothing but a sign of weakness. This evening, Severus's respect for Dursley had sunken considerably.

It would be for the best, he finally decided, if he waited for Mrs. Dursley to show herself. Then, he could come forward and simply pretend that he had been searching for her in vain, and they could return to the others together.

Severus did not have to wait long, for only a few minutes later, she stepped out of the corridor. He took a deep breath, then he walked around the corner and approached her.

"Madam, I had been looking for you."

She flinched at his words and spun around, and he could see that she was even paler than she had been. There was a frightened look in her eyes, which made his disdain for her husband only grow.

"Oh, it is you, Mylord." She smiled weakly, relief clearly written on her face. "You had me startled for a moment. I thought that everyone else was still at dinner." Within seconds, it seemed, she had adopted an appearance of composure again.

Severus forced a smile as well, although it was the last thing he felt like doing. "I had been searching for you, because I wanted to offer you my apologies," he said, now serious. "I had not believed that talking about your sister would cause you so much grief. Had I known, I would not have inquired after her."

Her façade of calmness seemed to waver briefly, but then she composed herself. "It was not your fault at all," she replied softly. "It is...unusual that it should still upset me so, after so long a time. It is silly of me, and it is I who must apologise."

Severus shook his head. "I know of nothing of which you would have to be ashamed."

There was a short, awkward silence before Severus offered her his arm. "Let us go back to the others. It would not do to deprive your guests of their hostess's presence."

Together, they headed back to the dining room, which they entered under the curious glances of the other guests, both wishing to be anywhere but here.

* * *

**Glossary: **

for aught I know ------------ for all I know

billet-doux ---------- love letter


End file.
